


Dambuster

by awittyname



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-04
Updated: 2010-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awittyname/pseuds/awittyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the elephant in the room, the one thing that they were both aware of, but pretended to ignore. They'd built up the walls, and the dams, and wore the mask, but this was the hundred year's flood, trickling down the mountain and washing away everything that came with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dambuster

It was the elephant in the room, and both of them knew it. It was always there, hiding in the dark corners, as though waiting for them to let their guard down. They said nothing of it, although they could tell from shared glances that each knew that the other knew. They were far too proud and proper to let their emotions show, and to let the carefully constructed walls break down. Each knew that all it would take was for one of them to make one small mistake, and they would go tumbling down the dark path that they were, quite frankly, both afraid of.

They hid it well, and pretended as though both of them were oblivious. They acted as though longing glances that happened to be caught in the mirror did not exist, and that those little lingering touches as cufflinks were adjusted or as they handed a teacup from one to the other were perfectly routine. They ignored the way that they did not need to speak, as they could communicate with more than words-over the years they had developed the ability to read each other's little quirks-the raise of an eyebrow or the slump of the shoulders. They pretended as though it was perfectly natural to, after how long they'd been together, to be the first one the other turned to for any of the problems that ailed them.

They restrained themselves, however, when their closeness became threatening-when it dared to breach a carefully constructed boundary, that seemed to shift with every passing year. It had been a hastily erected dam, a facade thrown together in their first few weeks of meeting, as each of them had realized that if they did not create their own barriers that their relationship would have gone very differently. As the months ticked by, however, those first jerry-rigged walls had given way to one that had been mutually constructed by an unspoken agreement. They did not talk about _this_, even though it infiltrated everything they did, snuck into every one of their thoughts and was the controlling force behind their each and every action. Because to speak of it would make it real, make it impossible to deny.

It was easy to pretend it did not exist. It was easier to ignore the mutual attraction than it was to act upon it. To act upon it would bring with it so much more pain than to continue on knowing that both of them were suffering the same. To act upon it might bring momentary happiness, but they were both far too realistic to know that it could last forever. Eventually, he would have to marry-there was no way to avoid it forever. Then there were their spats over spats-all it would take, they knew, was one fight over a cummerbund grown out of hand and they would be done for, risking their everything for an entirely too volatile relationship. Then there was the ever-present fear of what could happen should they be discovered. It was not worth risking prison and a permanent blackening of their family names for a bit of pleasure. They knew how the world worked, and it did not work in their favor.

After a while, it was almost easy to forget that there was any sort of underlying tension between them. After a while, even they forgot about it, so good had they grown at wearing the mask. It ceased to be an issue, and for a moment, they were on even footing, able to ignore the elephant in the room. But there is only so long that an elephant can keep still before it has to shift, making its presence known again. They had been getting on so well, able to forget about the razor's edge that they had walked. And then, suddenly, after what had seemed like years of ignoring it so well they thought that maybe, perhaps, they had both managed to squash their feelings entirely, they found that those carefully constructed walls came crashing down.

They hadn't planned on it happening-no one ever plans for these sorts of things. He hadn't planned on Colonel McDowell being slightly batty and believing the last of the Woosters to be out to destroy his daughter's honor (when nothing of the sort had even begun to transpire), nor had he expected them to be chased over hill and vale to the braying call of a hunting rifle. They had been lucky enough to stumble upon the long-forgotten about gamekeeper's hut, nothing more than a bed, a wood stove, and a small table. It was then that he had spotted the small streak of dark red against a crisp white shirt, and it was in that moment that they found that they were lost. Those carefully-constructed walls, built up over decades had just come crashing down around them as he gently traced the edges of the wound.

It was nothing more than a deep scratch, really, but it was a symbol of what could have been. If it had been just a fraction of an inch to the side, they would have been separated forever. And the very thought of losing his other half is enough to have him standing there, in the dim half-light provided by the stove giving in to years of repression, pressing his lips gently but firmly against his other's. He'd rather deal with the risks that come inherently with this whole sitch than he would miss this entire chance. There's a delayed response while cold and calculating mind weighs the risks and rewards; as every possibility is considered, before the kiss is tentatively returned.

It's slow and awkward at first, as neither of them are entirely sure if this is a good idea. Both of them know that this is a turning point. That there is no going back-that they could turn around and go back to pretending, but that's only if they stop right now, and don't let it go any further. But it's that fear-that knowledge that now they will never be the same-that makes this all the more exciting. Both of them are attempting to seem as though this is natural, that they are more skilled in these matters than they are. Putting on a show, if only to boost their own confidence. He reaches up, tangling one hand in thick black hair, grinning at how utterly disheveled he's got his other half looking.

The grin only lasts for a second, before lips are upon his once again, and he walks them towards the bed. He takes his time unbuttoning the starched white shirt, pausing to kiss his way along the gouge that mars the pale flesh of one side. It's raised and red and ugly, and he thinks he loves it, because it is this mar in otherwise perfect flesh that convinced him that there was no reason to wait any longer. They don't say anything, the only sounds are the quiet crackle of wood in the stove and the sounds of flesh on flesh, of lips attaching themselves to various body parts, of the odd gasp and groan as they discover the sensitive parts of each other's bodies.

He's rather enjoying the sounds that he can draw forth as he nibbles directly over an Adam's apple when he feels a gentle nudge on his shoulder, encouraging him to roll over, which he does. It's been a long time since he's felt like this, a long time since he's felt someone balance themselves between his thighs, and he can't help the moan at how bally good it feels. It's wonderful, really, the feeling of strong arms around him, and lips and teeth and an answering erection grinding against his own. He strips his-he tries to think of a word to describe the man now, in terms of what they've become. Lover conveys something more than what they have-it conveys soppy terms of endearment and cuddling on the sofa at night. It conveyed a sense of intimacy that they were unsure of wading into, another line that they dared not cross.

This was about fulfilling a physical need. This was about reassuring each other that they were alive, after being chased over hill and vale by a madman with a gun. This was about caving in to years of building need. This was not a time to pause and question what sort of emotions were behind it, but rather a time to revel in the nowness of it, to revel in the sweaty ecstasy of physical intimacy when they'd both gone for so long without. He wriggles free of his pants and trousers, and thinks of what a silly sight he must be, in his vest, with his shirt unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders, and his socks, held up by a garish pair of sock garters that they'd argued about only hours ago. He strips his other-as other is the only way he can think of the man, as he thinks that it covers everything. The ying to his yang, the peanut butter to his jelly, the cream to his coffee-the other half of the equation that completed him. They exisisted solely in terms of each other-it was impossible to seperate them. This was merely a spilling over of that closeness in a way that had been threatening for what seemed like forever.

It doesn't stop him from gasping at the sight of his man laying beneath him in nothing more than an a-framed vest and undershorts, black hair hanging down into blue-gray eyes now dark with lust. It is, he thinks, the most erotic thing he's ever seen, and it takes a steadying breath to stop him from coming off right then and there. The moment passes, and he skims his fingertips along the inch of flesh that is revealed between the hem of a slightly hitched shirt and the waistband of a pair of shorts, before sliding his hands upwards, pushing the shirt with him, watching the way that the sinewy muscles beneath twist and flex to aid him. Fingers tangle in his hair, and he allows himself to be pulled down into another bruising kiss, tongues skating over one another, teeth nibbling at lips. He's aware only of this indescribable need, and with something approaching a growl, he pulls away to strip the other man bare before shucking his own shirt and vest aside.

They're naked now, save for their socks, and right now he can't be damned to bother with them. Right now what he needs are those little gasps and grunts, teased forth as he grinds down, twin erections sliding over one another. Right now, what he needs is to run his hands down quivering flanks, and bury his teeth into the side of a pale, perfect neck. He doesn't bother to hold himself up, instead, he lays there, pressed fully against the warmth beneath him, hips moving of their own accord. It's a slow buildup of passions, the floodwaters slowly trickling down the mountain, and heading towards the dam. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that a flood is the best metaphor for this, and he's somewhat proud that he's come up with it all on his own. It's a destructive force, that will leave them forever changed, forever break down the walls between them, and leave them on unsteady footing, knee deep in the soup, but it's something that has to happen, that cannot be avoided any longer, a force of nature.

This was the hundred-years flood, this was years in the making, and they'd waited years for it. Everything that they'd wanted from when they first met. This was everything that they had lived for, everything that had given their lives meaning, condensed into a gentle rocking of their hips, and the digging of nails into a sweat-slicked back. This was their everything-their very souls, poured into the scrape of teeth against stubble where chin meets neck. Neither of them are apt to last long-years of celibacy and want are acting against them, and it's he who succumbs first, when those teeth find that spot on his neck that seems to be wired directly to his groin. His hips do not stop moving though, as he gives a shuddering gasp, and it's less than a moment later that the back beneath him arches, and a long, low groan rips free from his other's throat.

Neither of them moves, afraid of what will happen when they do. They lay there, clutching one another, breath slowly returning to them. Instead, they cling to each other, as though they were swept away in a storm, clinging to a buoy for dear life. And they are-they've been swept away, crossed lines that they had dared not cross, and turned their lives upside down. But there will be time to talk of it in the morning, time to redefine the boundaries, re-make the rules, and rebuild the walls and fortifications to stop this from getting out of hand. For now, he's content to lie there, sticky and sweaty and exhausted, listening to the sound of wood crackling and soft breathing, ignoring the fact that this changes everything. ﻿


End file.
